TBDH : A Valentine's Day Snippet
by Scioneeris
Summary: Not TBDH Canon. Set in TBDH Slash!Universe. Features Harryxhis Bonded, on "What if" They were back at Hogwarts during Valentine's day. Slightly angsty. Cameo with Hermione/Aiden.


**Summary:**

Set in the There Be Dragons, Harry Universe, this snippet is meant to be a "What If" for a Valentine's Day sort of thing with Harry and his Bonded. It is NOT TBDH canon.

* * *

**Pairings:**

Harry Potter x Harry's Bonded future and present.

Ilsa x Deveraines

**Disclaimer:**

I do not own any Harry Potter anything. That belongs to J.K. Rowling. I just like playing with Harry in my own little world of storyville. I make no money by writing this fanfiction. All original characters are my own.

**Rating:**

T – Suitable for children or teens below the age of 16.

* * *

**WARNINGS: **Fluff. Family. OC's. OOCness. TBDH Universe. AU. Other warnings will be added as I see fit.

* * *

_**A/N: **This is a prompt fill for the request to show Harry and his Bonded on Valentine's day. It's kind of um, more angsty than it should be? I'm trying a new sort of "style" with the tone, so let me know what you think. I'm just experimenting. This is NOT TBDH Canon, so read it with a grain of salt. Yes, I am just having fun with the whole mess. Thanks for reading! ~Scion  
_

* * *

In the end, Harry knows that it doesn't matter.

Because it doesn't matter—other things are far more important—he doesn't let it bother him. He can stew and simmer and sulk over it—oh yes, he knows he can do that—but it won't amount to anything and if he's honest, he doesn't want it to.

That's how they are.

That's how they've always been.

He hopes that's how they'll always stay.

So in the end, it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter at all.

* * *

"What are you doing for Valentine's day?" Hermione is making faces at herself in the mirror of Harry's vanity set—and if that isn't a reversal, no one knows what is.

Not that Harry made faces in other people's vanity mirrors.

Of course not.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks, half-hoping that he can distract her from realizing that he hasn't answered her question, isn't going to answer her question—and really, really doesn't want to answer her question.

He also would like to know what she is doing.

"Curling my hair," Hermione murmurs, flicking her wand in a complicated pattern and smiling at the result.

Harry can't really see much of a change, but he's not stupid enough to say as much. Instead, he simply watches and hopes that she will hurry up and leave.

"So?"

"So…?"

"You have ten seconds to think of a better answer than that, Harry," his best friend says, primly. "I know Neville's off with Lavender again, Aiden said he was coming in-" and here, Hermione pauses to squint down at the very unfeminine watch adorning her left wrist.

It is one of the few trinkets she has from her dark and brooding counterpart. Actions speak louder than words between them and Aiden isn't really the gifting type. Hermione has simply appropriated his watch and like a good boyfriend—Harry doesn't even know if that's the actual title—Aiden has dutifully replaced his own and showed Hermione how to wind it up.

Not that Hermione hadn't figured it out on her own within a week.

Harry rolls over on the bed, staring up at the un-canopied ceiling. He wants to think of things and he really, really wants to be able to put those things into words.

But right now he's feeling _things_ and that makes other things complicated.

"Har-ry," Hermione prompts again. This time, when she twirls her wand, Harry can see what she's doing.

Each individual curl is slowly smoothing itself out and curling itself into nicer, smoother versions of themselves. It's a handy spell. Harry wonders if she knows other hair spells.

He wonders if he has the nerve to ask.

"Dinner in Hogsmeade?"

Hermione wrinkles her nose. "Heavens no," she mutters, sounding very unlike herself for a few scant sections. There is a pointless stamp of her foot to accompany the phrase of speech—or whatever those sorts of things are called, but Harry doesn't comment. "Aiden would never deign to stoop to something so—common." There is a hint of irritation in her voice as she flicks her wand a bit more viciously this time.

Harry wants to remind her that it's her hair she's working on. He's smart enough to keep silent. Instead, he rolls over on his stomach, propping up his chin with his hands and digging his elbows into the cushy mattress for balance. "So where is he taking you?"

"Oh you know, realm-walking or night-sky carpet riding," there's a pleased gleam in her eyes as she says this, so Harry knows she's not really that upset. "I would prefer if it wasn't as part of his nightly patrol, but you know how he is."

He doesn't, but Harry nods anyway. Sometimes there are no safe answers.

"Red or red?" she asks, spinning away from the mirror and lifting her sweeping skirts just high enough to show off her ankles and killer heeled boots. "I know better than to wear sandals this time around."

They both look the same to him, but Harry makes himself concentrate until he can see the difference in color. He smiles. "Red," he says, nodding at the right foot, the first one she held out.

She sighs. "I know, right? It looks best." She bends down to tap her wand to it, a simple switching charm to bring the other mate to her. It takes a second, then both shoes are matching and her outfit is complete. "Have you seen my cloak?"

And then Harry remembers why she is here, invading his private rooms. The last attack destroyed her room—as well as the entirety of Gryffindor Tower and everyone has been bunking with someone else for the past week and a half.

He, of course, has put up Hermione, since no one else actually can. Aiden is a possessive, prickly bastard—but he's Hermione's bastard and he will tolerate Harry—within reason.

Harry tries not to be too reasonable. It makes his insides itch.

He thinks back to the article of clothing in question, recalling the voluminous, ridiculously dressy cloak, with the giant glowing red-eyed gem fastener at the neck.

He also remembers that it was hung up with the rest of the returned washing in the corner by the laundry cove. The elves help here, so Quinn has insisted that they put things in a specific place to make it easier on them. Harry thinks it is sweet and no one else objects.

The cloak is exactly where he remembers and Harry floats it off the hook and over to Hermione, only for pale, slender fingered hands to snatch it out of the air and hold it ready for the lovely witch himself.

Aiden.

Harry feels the chill in the air and knows it is a belated warning. He smiles at the red-eyed man that is probably as close to his brother-in-law that he will ever have, for Hermione has been a friend and so much more to him in the years that fate has pushed and pulled them about.

"Aiden," he says, because adding anything else to that can set off the man who bears the title of "Hell's Hound".

"Harry," comes the curt reply. Aiden holds the cloak out and whisks it about Hermione's shoulder when she comes within reaching distance.

"You're early," Hermione says, reaching up to touch his cheek with one hand. They don't do public displays of affection. They never have.

Harry would doubt that they are matched for each other, except that he's seen them in unexpected moments for the past week and he knows that they suit each other just fine. He can see it now in the way that Aiden's hand is still on her shoulder and Hermione is pushing back, subtly to lean into him.

"Er—I'll just,"

"May the shadows beware of you," Aiden says, gruffly.

It is the most neutral and polite thing he can say, for a hellhound, so Harry doesn't hold it against him. It also means that they will leave, so he doesn't have to.

"One moment," Hermione says, moving forward, but holding onto one of his hands as she stretches out enough to offer Harry a one-armed hug.

He hugs her back, cautiously—well aware of the sharp eyes that are watching him. Her lips brush against his ear and he freezes.

"They won't know to do something, unless you tell them," she says, softly. "Tell them. It doesn't hurt to—do something. And it's nice to feel as if you're being courted all over again."

She doesn't say anything else, because Aiden tugs on her hand, having deemed her close enough to Harry to last a while and she chuckles, allowing him to draw her away.

"I sincerely hope you brought me flowers," she begins and stops in mid-sentence when he produces a glistening black rose. It has nothing to do with flower languages and everything to do with their own private love language.

Hermione smiles.

Aide draws her closer and there is a powerful draw of magic, before they both vanish in a swirl of inky shadow.

Harry is alone again.

Sort of.

He retreats to the kitchen.

* * *

_Lunch isn't ready yet, love._ Quinn says, absently. He is up to his elbows in a giant mixing bowl. He takes great pride in his culinary skills and it was an uphill battle both ways with the elves, before they would understand that he was going to cook—and for all of his Bonded—with or without their approval.

It was easier for them to give in.

Quinn has his mother's stubbornness.

Harry scopes out the kitchen, but lunch looks quite ordinary. In fact, he thinks that Quinn is being a bit lazy, because he can swear it looks like there are dinner preparations going on as well.

That means that no one is taking him out to dinner.

Not that he expected it.

Oh no.

They don't have time for this sort of thing.

_Is something wrong? _ Quinn has lost his distracted look and his piercing teal eyes are now quite deliberately fixed on Harry's face. He doesn't believe Harry's quick shake, but he plies him with a piece of fresh shortbread.

To avoid more questions, Harry slips off.

Quinn is fine—and happy—and that's all that matters.

* * *

There is no one else in their rooms, so Harry slips out. He notes that it's quiet everywhere. He was surprised when the decision to allow Valentine's day to actually happen—passed.

He hopes everything is alright.

There have been no attacks, but he knows what kind of luck he has and hopes that it won't hold true. Everyone deserves a break—and some kisses and cuddles will probably go a long way in making a lot of people more comfortable and reenergized.

They have a lot of planning and fighting still ahead of them.

Wars are not won by the idle, after all.

He passes Luna and Rolf, snogging in an alcove.

Luna waves to him—behind Rolf's back—as he passes.

Harry smiles and waves back. He doesn't think she can see him—her eyes are closed—but she always waves like that, to him.

He hurries on, not wanting to disturb them. He hides from the few familiar faces he finds, but makes his way to Hufflepuff territory.

The Twins are supposed to be there, both of them, and doing their best to entertain some of the younger students and managing quite spectacularly. Harry thinks they were supposed to be helping to start a study group—to bridge the gap between the Ravenclaws and the 'Puffs, but this is the twins.

How they managed to suggest and insert themselves into such a scheme, he is not sure he wants to know. They are supposed to be practicing some sort of potions, but just the theory.

A note on the common room for the badgers reads "_your glorious and wonderful tutors are providing a uniquely hands-on experience in the Great Hall. Join us, if you dare"_

Harry doesn't think he dares, but curiosity will win out in the end, so he goes.

A peek through the door is all he really means, but then somehow—the twins are right there and they hoist him up by the arms and carry him on in.

"Fred, George-!"

"Shush Harry-kins," comes the tandem reply. "We've only just started and since you've seen us, we can't possibly let you out."

"Not at all," George says solemnly.

"Absolutely not," Fred proclaims.

It takes seconds before Harry is being swarmed by the younger students. Some of them are hugging him, some are tickling him. All are happy to see him.

He has saved them, he thinks.

Dumbledore's plans for them have fallen through, because Harry's return was their saving. He insisted on medical treatments, trauma counseling and seeing about legal matters for all of the children who were disowned.

In the end, it was only those of the 'Puffs and the 'Claws that allowed their children to stay on in Hogwarts and while even some of them haven't bothered to return, some have.

Harry has done the best that he can.

He feels he is filling shoes and gaps that are far too big for any one person to do so.

But he tries anyway.

That is all he can do.

They are making candy.

That's what the fuss is all about. Harry soon discovers that the twins are showing an alternated, abbreviated version of one of their most popular pranks—Canary creams.

Every young student is learning how to make a sweet treat. Friends are already happily exchanging the smushed results with each other. The candies are not perfect.

And neither are the students.

But it is a gesture that means everything.

So when the twins have playfully scolded their little students into submission and parceled out the candy for their little swap, they stand off to the side and beam at Harry.

"So, what'd you think, Har?"

"He thinks it's brilliant, of course."

"Perfect," Harry says. Then he kisses George, because Fred is still talking. George is happy and he tastes like chocolate.

Fred pulls Harry away with a pout, a silent plea for a kiss of his own.

Harry smiles and kisses him too—and Fred's desperate gaze softens a bit. He tastes like confectioner's sugar. Harry hopes he's happy too.

George taps them both on the shoulder and Harry placates him for the interrupted kiss with another one—and then of course that means Fred needs another and…

* * *

When Harry escapes from the main hall, his face is as red as the twins' hair. He can still hear the giggles of the younger students behind him and he pretends that he can't.

Of course, his luck is brilliant—thank you Fred—and he runs straight into Charlie, who simply swings him up and around, with the momentum and sets him down on his feet with a laugh.

"Sorry, couldn't resist." Charlie kisses him in apology—and probably because he feels like it, before Harry can formulate a good reason for why he is running.

"Mmphrsh," is all that comes out when Charlie is done kissing him senseless.

Harry thinks this is a perfectly acceptable sentence, seeing as his brain has now turned to mush.

Charlie chuckles again in that warm way that makes Harry remember naughty, naughty things.

His face warms.

"Twins?" Charlie guesses—accurately, as usual.

Harry moans and buries his face in Charlie's warm chest. Charlie smells like smoke and fresh air, so Harry knows that his Beta has been outdoors and puttering around—most likely with Hagrid and his beasties.

He smiles. "Help?" he asks, knowing that if anyone can rescue him from the twins, it'll be Charlie.

"Wikhn's in the Room of Requirement," Charlie says, a twinkle in his eye. He may be suggesting the dark fae because he knows that one twin will most definitely not seek Harry out when Harry is within said fae's company. Or he may not.

Harry doesn't care either way.

"Thanks," he says, popping up on tip-toe to kiss Charlie's cheek in thanks.

It prompts another chuckle from Charlie, who holds him steady about the waist and gives him another one before he lets him go.

Harry is grinning goofily as he trots off in the direction of the Room of Requirement. He has a feeling he knows what Wikhn is up to.

* * *

He's right of course.

Wikhn is his usual self, a blur of destructive motion, his cursed sword flashing and gleaming in the light as he practices yet another one of his many, complicated pattern dances.

They are meant to keep him flexible and prepared. There is supposed to be a pattern for every possible attack.

Harry doesn't know how Wikhn can keep them all straight. The dark fae has tried to teach him, but it is slow going. Wikhn was born with a sword in his hand, Harry thinks.

Harry was born with hopes that fate replaced with troubles.

"Need something, Harry?" Wikhn asks. He hasn't even looked in Harry's direction once—and the cursed blade is still twirling, thrusting and parrying in a blur of motion.

"Just checking up on you."

"Consider me sufficiently checked up on, then," Wikhn says, dryly. He ends the routine with a sharp hiss and sheaths the sword into mid-air, watching as it shimmers out of existence from their realm back to where it belongs.

"You looked good," Harry ventures.

Wikhn smiles and it's a rare one, so Harry treasures it. "Thank you," he says, a beat later. "Come in."

Harry does. He was waiting for the invitation and he can see the exact moment when Wikhn realizes it. The sudden blaze of warmth in his Bonded's gaze is enough to make him wish for the refreshing coolness of the snow outside, for that look in Wikhn's eyes promises all sorts of devilishly delightful things.

"Twins?" Wikhn asks, a moment later.

"What?"

"You have chocolate in your hair and you smell like powdered sugar," Wikhn wrinkles his nose. "You have more sugar in your hair than chocolate…" he mutters a few unsavory phrases about redheads and poor genes, before he casts a spell that tingles over Harry from head to toe.

"Am I suitable now?" Harry teases.

Wikhn blushes and kisses him to cover it up.

The next few minutes are wonderful.

Harry's perfectly happy right where he is and he's almost certain that Wikhn is too—when there's a scandalized gasp of "Mister Potter!"

Harry can feel the groan that Wikhn doesn't voice and he tries to smile, but knows it doesn't look as good as it can. He tries to hold a neutral expression—or as best of one as he can—before he turns around. "Professor McGonagall?"

The elderly witch looks properly scandalized, but her severe expression doesn't quite waver in the look of his not-quite-repentance. "There are students in this school," she warns him, disapprovingly. "There were certain rules enforced when you brought your-"

"Please don't say harem," Harry says, finding his voice. No one has quite been able to adjust to calling him anything other than Harry Potter and he's given up on trying to make them say something different. It doesn't really matter, so as long as he knows the difference. He squeezes Wikhn's arm, gently, before pulling away. He wonders sometimes if his former head of house has a charm on them to alert her every single time a kiss is about to turn into something more.

He's stopped counting the number of times she's interrupted them, anyway.

"Excuse me?" She puffs up, with the same sort of motherly rage he once expected from Molly Weasley.

"If you call them part of my harem, Wikhn will get upset and I'll have to calm him down all over again, so please don't."

Twin spots of color decorate Minerva McGonagall's cheeks and Harry knows that he's hit a soft spot—and possibly landed himself in a spot of trouble as well.

"I think," she says, stiffly. "We should pay a visit to the headmaster!"

* * *

When the door to the Headmaster's office swings open, two pairs of golden eye lock onto them. One belongs to Theo—Harry's Alpha—and the other belongs to Ilsa, Theo's mentor.

Ilsa blinks and then rises to her feet as if on autopilot. "I'll just take a walk," she says, faintly. She doesn't walk by Minerva, but instead, spins a portal beneath her feet with a muttered "_temptrificus ergen!" _

Harry guesses that one of the Deveraine submissives must have called for her, because she never 'ports out that quickly. Then again, not many of the Deveraines' like anyone or anything at Hogwarts.

He's simply gotten used to their perpetual upturned noses. The thought almost makes him giggle, but Theo is giving him a stern look and Harry forces himself to look properly contrite.

Professor McGonagall delivers her lecture and waits expectantly for Theo's verdict.

"I see," Theo says gravely.

Harry is fairly certain that his Alpha doesn't _see _ anything at all, but he knows better than to interrupt this little _thing._ It happens several times a week, after all.

His acting has improved significantly since.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Minerva. I will speak to Harry—again. I am terribly sorry you were witness to such a—display. I will be sure to impart the folly of his actions through a method suitable of leaving a lasting impression."

There is a moment's pause before Professor McGonagall dips her head in acknowledgement and sweeps from the office. Theo always manages to give a different variation of that sentence any time that McGonagall has brought Harry to the Headmaster's office for reprimand.

Harry waits a moment longer.

Theo says nothing.

When they are both sure that their former professor is far enough away—with no reason to return, at least, Theo sighs.

"Harry," he says, mildly. There is a look on his face.

"Theo," Harry returns. He walks right up to the desk—glad it's not the one that Dumbledore used, because Theo burned it straightaway—and leans over for his welcome kiss.

Theo gives it, readily and then pulls back with a sigh. "This is the nineteenth time this week, Harry. Can't you use a cloaking spell?"

"It's like she has a charm on me or something," Harry grumbles, annoyed that the special moment is ruined. "And it was just a few kisses—nothing else!"

"Nothing else?" Theo echoes. "No hands anywhere they shouldn't have been?"

Harry sniffs. "I was with _Wikhn_." He emphasizes the name. "I'm sure you know the answer to that."

Theo winces. He does—because that says more than either of them have to. "I'm sorry, treasure," he apologizes, a beat later. "It's just-" he pushes away from the desk and sits back in the chair, a hand going to his forehead. "Today has been a bear," he says, irritably. "I didn't need to have another-"

"It was just a kiss," Harry says, seizing the opportunity being presented. He is quicker on the uptake than anyone has ever given him credit for. He circles 'round the desk and manages to push the chair away in time to insinuate himself on Theo's lap.

"Oh?" Theo says. He perks a brow at Harry's boldness, but doesn't protest. "Just a kiss?"

"Like this," Harry demonstrates.

"Exactly like that?"

"…Maybe more like this…"

And the kissing starts.

And goes on.

And leads to other things.

Theo is stressed and Harry hates seeing him that way. He also wants to feel loved and he always feels that way when he's under Theo—the sole object of his Alpha's attentions and affections.

No one interrupts them.

Theo makes sure of it.

Harry thanks him for that bit of thoughtfulness—all over again.

* * *

When he can walk straight again—and it does take bit before he can—Harry ventures outside, because the older students are returning from their Valentine's day excursions and he doesn't want to be there to see it.

He's managed to avoid the other teachers and their aides. He's also managed to avoid some of his other friends and their significant others. It bugs him just enough to see the pink and red wrapped tokens being passed around.

He could make some of his own—but he doesn't.

Everyone has a different love language.

Harry knows that his Bonded aren't particularly inclined towards this sort of holiday anyway. He could give them something anyway—they would most likely thank him and reciprocate, after a fashion.

But that's not what he wants.

He's not sure exactly what he wants, so he tries not to dwell on it.

Not any more than he already has, anyway.

* * *

Sitting out by the lake and talking to the Giant Squid, Harry feels a little silly, but he'd rather feel silly than melancholy, so he continues talking.

The conversation is very one-sided.

He didn't expect otherwise.

When The Merrow joins him, Harry pretends not to notice.

When one blue-scaled arm curls around his shaking shoulders, Harry turns and buries his face into that cool, smooth neck. He breathes in the scent of salt and water and surety.

It takes a few seconds, but soon he is sitting in said Merrow's lap—and it's more comfortable than the ground—and he's babbling, because he just needs to get the words out.

"It's probably the magic," the Merrow says at last, when Harry pauses for a breath.

"What?"

"You're an empath and you're magic sensitive," comes the logical explanation. "And of course this would be a date of some significance, which means that magic was probably raised here at some point or another and because of it—you're feeling some sort of effect."

It sort of makes sense and it sort of doesn't.

But Harry doesn't care about that.

He sighs and cuddles closer.

The Merrow doesn't protest.

* * *

When Harry wakes, he's surrounded by different scents, sounds and a familiar, strong, pulsing magic. He feels like he's in a fog and it makes him feel cranky.

"…He's alright then?"

"…That's what Quinn says."

"What happened…?"

"…Seemed alright to me."

"Kind of mopey…"

"Didn't say anything at all…"

And Harry wants to tell them to stop talking about him, because he can hear them and then the arms wrapped tightly around him, squeeze ever so gently and oh—oh.

Harry relaxes.

Boneless.

"Harry-love?" The voice is that of his Ace, strong, familiar and oh-so-close.

Harry almost wants to cry—he's that happy. They're back and they're safe and they're _his. _

"We're back," says his Gheyo Queen—and kisses him to prove it. A token that is warm, soft and comforting in the space of mere seconds. There is a gentle pat to his stomach as well.

It takes Harry a moment to realize that he's naked, save for his pants and that he's being cuddled and touched on all sides—skin to skin contact for a reacting empath.

He tries to open his eyes.

"Shh," says another one of his Gheyos.

And then they greet him one by one, a kiss and a pat. Hands on his face, in his hair—in his soul it seems.

"It went well," someone is saying. "Everything was fine. You didn't have to worry."

"…Wasn't worrying," Harry says, relieved that his voice is working. His eyes will get there soon, he's sure.

There is laugher all around him, but it's warm and it sounds relieved. Just like he feels.

He's being smothered—and its better than he could have imagined.

He stops trying to wake up and lets himself drift.

* * *

When he wakes for the second time, Harry find himself staring into Theo's amused golden eyes. He opens his mouth to ask what is so funny, but a pleased chir comes out instead.

Theo's smile grows wider. He produces a funny white container with the words _'edible chocolate lotion'_ printed on the side. His lips are twitching in the way that means he really wants to laugh, but his pureblooded upbringing is getting the better of him.

"Theo?" Harry hears himself say.

"Happy Valentine's day, treasure," Theo stage-whispers. "I would have bought you chocolates or something, but I thought this would be more fun—and Arielle knows these louts ought to be good for something." He's unscrewing the cap as he speaks and scoops out a glob of something that smells absolutely divine. "Have a Fred-truffle."

Harry can't help his laughter when the cold glob is smeared over Fred's bare chest.

The resulting yelps and shrieks wake up everyone else.

It takes a few minutes to bring everyone up to speed—and then Harry has help in holding Fred down so he can lick off the chocolate spread. It does taste as good as it smells and Harry has a feeling that such a small container won't last very long.

It doesn't, of course.

Then they are all sticky and sweaty.

And it simply goes downhill from there—in the very best kind of way.

* * *

In the end, Harry knows that it doesn't matter.

Other things are far more important after all and he won't let this bother him—not again, anyway. It won't amount to anything and he's honest. He doesn't need it to.

They are his.

His Bonded.

They always will be.

That's how they are.

That's how they've always been.

And he's all theirs.

So in the end, it doesn't matter at all. Not even a single bit.

~_FIN~_

* * *

**This is NOT TBDH-canon. Like most of my prompts, this was written in a 30-minute block. I apologize for any obvious typos or plot holes. I took a reader's prompt of Harry and his Bonded having a Valentine's day at Hogwarts and this sort of turned into that...sort of. I think it fits them in their own little twisted ways. I had a few minutes today and figured it would be fun to write this out. Thanks for reading!**


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